


Pitcher Perfect

by besanii



Series: Starbucks AU [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Arguing, Baristas, Coffee, First Meetings, Gen, M/M, Starbucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-04 00:07:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2893136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besanii/pseuds/besanii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Who’s Grantaire?”</p><p>“Oh, he’s from the York Street store. He’s covering for Eponine tonight.”</p><p>It's not quite a love story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pitcher Perfect

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chanson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanson/gifts).



> This is a fic for the Les Mis Holidays Exchange! Based on the prompt:
> 
> "in which they genuinely can't stand each other when they first meet (both for good reasons), but are forced to work together for some reason and then have a change of heart a.k.a. enemies-to-lovers trope."
> 
> Sorry, it's mostly gen. Pre-E/R, if anything. But hints of it towards the end!

“Who’s Grantaire?”

Valjean hums inquisitively, barely glancing up from the computer to where Enjolras is standing in front of the shift plan. There’s a sharpie in Enjolras’ hand, and another tucked behind his ear, and he’s frowning at the unfamiliar name listed beneath his own on the chart, due to start in ten minutes.

“Oh, he’s from the York Street store,” Valjean replies. “He’s covering for Eponine tonight.”

“Is he new? I’ve never heard of him.”

“Been with the company three years, maybe. Doesn’t usually take shifts at other stores.”

“Ah. Well. Hope he’s good.”

“Lamarque likes him,” Valjean says, clicking away with the mouse. Enjolras wanders over to the desk. “Says he’s won the Latte Art Roadshow every year since he started.”

 _Impressive_ , Enjolras doesn’t say. If this Grantaire from York Street comes recommended by the District Manager himself, then he must be good. And to win the annual latte art competition three years running – well, he must have the skills as well. Enjolras tucks the sharpie in his hand into the pocket of his apron and peers at the computer screen.

“Are you doing the milk orders for tomorrow?” he asks. Valjean nods. “Good, okay – can you order more soy milk? We ordered two boxes yesterday, but they only delivered one. I called them this morning – they’ve credited it to our account, so you just have to place the order.”

“Do we have enough room in the fridge though?”

“We’ve only got the six cartons in the bar fridge left,” Enjolras says. “That should be enough to last us the night, since there’s no show next door. And we’ve still got lite soy.”

“Okay, done.” Valjean clicks to confirm. “We’ve got three boxes coming in tomorrow morning.”

They’re interrupted by the sound of Enjolras’ name. Enjolras excuses himself to step out onto the floor, where he’s met by a stranger leaning against the pastry case, chatting to Courfeyrac. He’s wearing the standard issue black polo over a pair of jeans that must have been black at one point, but faded to grey with washing. Courfeyrac waves Enjolras over.

“Hey, Enjolras, this is Grantaire. Grantaire, Enjolras, our ASM.”

Grantaire looks at him in surprise.

“Awfully young to be an assistant manager, aren’t you?”

Enjolras bristles. He opens his mouth to retort, but Courfeyrac cuts in smoothly.

“He’s ASM of the Year, you know,” he tells Grantaire. “He’ll be taking over most of Valjean’s duties once the new store opens. Lamarque’s thinking of developing him into the new store manager.”

Enjolras glares when Grantaire whistles under his breath. He pointedly checks his watch, just as the minute hand ticks over to three-oh-one.

“You’re _late_ ,” he says. “Are you going to get changed?”

“Nah, I’m all set,” Grantaire replies. “Lemme put my stuff down at the back and grab an apron, I’ll be on floor soon.”

Enjolras tracks his movements to the back room, eyeing his tattered black trainers. His distaste must show on his face, because Courfeyrac elbows him in the side.

“Be _nice_ , Enjolras,” he hisses. “He’s doing us a favour.”

“He doesn’t even have the right _shoes_.” He gestures vaguely in Grantaire’s direction, even though Grantaire himself is out of sight. “They’re not even waterproof!”

“Let the dress code violations _go_ ,” Courfeyrac tells him, dragging out each word with exaggerated patience. He takes Enjolras by the shoulders and gives him a firm shake. “I’ve worked with him at York Street before. He’s totally cool, trust me.”

“You think everyone’s cool,” Enjolras replies. He reaches up to ruffle Courfeyrac’s hair fondly. “Now stop slacking off.”

“If you’ve got time to lean, you’ve got time to clean!” Courfeyrac sings in response, dancing away from Enjolras’ hands. He loops an arm around Jehan’s neck where the other boy is rinsing out the milk pitchers. “Hear that, Jehan?”

“ _Customers_ , Courfeyrac!” Enjolras calls over his shoulder. He shakes his head fondly when he hears Courfeyrac’s cheerful “ _Hi, how are you today?_ ”, and returns to the staff room to plan the rest of the shift.

 

\--

 

Working with Grantaire is, in a word, _frustrating_.

He chatters away as he works, usually to Jehan, but often to customers as well. Enjolras wonders if he has something to say about everything, given the way he hasn’t stopped talking since he introduced himself to Jehan. So far Enjolras has overheard them debating the merits of Keats, the new Benedict Cumberbatch movie, and the weirdest customer order they’ve ever had to make.

“Does he _ever_ stop talking?” Enjolras complains to Courfeyrac, slumping over the desk. Valjean has since clocked off and gone home, leaving the staff room blissfully empty. “All I hear when I go to the front is his voice talking, talking, _talking_.”

Courfeyrac pets his hair.

“At least he’s friendly?” he offers. “Customer service?”

“It’d be better customer service if he stopped talking long enough to actually make the drinks,” Enjolras mutters. Courfeyrac hums.

“Well, it’s not like he isn’t working while he talks, you know,” he says. “We managed the afternoon rush pretty well with just the four of us.”

Enjolras finds he can’t argue with that. Even with his initial misgivings, Enjolras has to admit that he’s never had a shift run so smoothly before. He barely remembers seeing Grantaire make drinks, distracted as Enjolras was by his own irritation, but the line had disappeared all the same.

“He still isn’t in proper uniform,” Enjolras grumbles half-heartedly.  He checks the time. “Can you get Jehan to bus and go on his half? Keep Grantaire on bar, and you take the reg.”

“Got it.” Courfeyrac wanders off, raising his voice. “ _Jehan! Bus and break!_ ”

Enjolras smothers a groan and pushes himself to his feet. He straightens his name tag, checks his hair in the mirror, and tries to smooth his frown into something a little more customer-friendly. _Just four more hours_ , he thinks.

 

\--

 

“–this goes after the mocha,” Enjolras says.

“Okay.” Grantaire picks up the iced latte Enjolras has just set down and places it on the hand-off plane. “Iced tall latte for Michel!”

He smiles, places a straw over the cup, and thanks the customer when they come to collect the drink. When he turns back, Enjolras is glaring at him.

“What?” he asks, confused.

“I _said_ that it comes _after_ the mocha,” Enjolras grits out. “Didn’t you hear me?”

“Does it matter?”

Enjolras gapes at him. “What do you – of _course_ it matters!”

“Does it really, though?” Grantaire asks again, cocking his head. “I mean, either way, they’re going to get their drinks. Does it really matter what order they come in?”

“Of course it does!” Enjolras says angrily. “You should be handing drinks out so customers get their order together, instead of at three or four different times! And it’s hardly fair if you’re handing out orders randomly and someone gets their drinks before a customer who was here earlier!”

Grantaire’s eyebrows disappear under his mop of unruly curls. He snaps the lid of the cup over the mocha and calls it out for the customer, his eyes never leaving Enjolras. His expression is oddly thoughtful, as if he were noticing Enjolras for the first time. Heat crawls up the back of Enjolras’ neck under the scrutiny.

“Fair enough,” Grantaire says finally, reaching for the next drink. “I see your point.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras replies, voice stiff with uncertainty. He turns back to the pitcher he’s steaming and makes a face. “Why is steaming with lite soy so _difficult_?”

“Let me see.” He shifts over to let Grantaire peer into the milk pitcher. “Mm, yeah okay. Here’s the problem. Lite soy is really thin, it’s got no body to it, so you have to aerate it longer before you submerge the steam wand.”

He measures another pitcher of milk and hands it to Enjolras. He leans a hip against the counter to better observe, wincing at the high-pitched shriek as Enjolras pulls the lever to turn on the steam wand. He jerks the pitcher back, knocking the steam wand out of place, and the shrieking is replaced by loud hissing and bubbling. An agonising half minute later, the milk comes out with large bubbles across the surface. Enjolras tuts, irritated. Grantaire gestures at the pitcher.

“May I?” he asks.

“Be my guest.”

Enjolras steps aside and watches as Grantaire tips out the milk, rinsing out the pitcher before he measures out more. He flushes the steam wand, guides the pitcher beneath it and pulls the lever. The steam hisses, punctuated by a soft _tsch tsch tsch_. There is no deafening shriek. Grantaire hums, pleased.

“See here,” he says, motioning with his head for Enjolras to come closer. “The way the milk swirls like a whirlpool? That’s good. You want that. It works best when the tip of your steam wand is pointed slightly off to the side of the pitcher; just look for the sweet spot. And forget about all that counting the clicks for foam thing – going by temperature is better. Soy milk sets at about forty degrees, so when it hits that, then you submerge your steam wand.”

He sets down the pitcher onto the tray and pulls the shot, sliding the cup under the spout to catch the espresso. When the steam wand turns itself off, he removes the pitcher and grins across at Enjolras.

“See? Works every time.” He wipes down and flushes the steam wand. “Of course, it’s different depending on the machine you use. Ours happens to be semi-automatic, so that might be why it’s easier. You just gotta find the way that works and stick to it.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras says. He shakes his head when Grantaire offers him the pitcher and cup. “No, you should finish it off.”

Grantaire shrugs. “Okay.”

He tilts the cup and pours, angling his arm so the milk slides in underneath the espresso and catches the _crema_. When the cup is a third full, he lowers his hand until the pitcher is hovering just above the surface of the liquid. His wrist flicks back and forth in loose, practised motions, ending with a flourish. A perfect rosetta sits in the foam when he pulls away.

“Ooh, that’s nice,” he says happily.

“It is,” Enjolras agrees. “I can see why you keep winning the Roadshow.”

“Pfft, honestly? I don’t really care about it,” Grantaire snorts. “I do it cos every store needs a representative and no one else knows how to. Still, it keeps our manager happy.”

“It’s still an impressive skill,” Enjolras insists with a frown. “It’s not something to be _ashamed_ of.”

“Who says I’m ashamed?” Grantaire hands off the drink. “I never said I was ashamed of it. I just meant that it’s not all that great, winning the Roadshow, when it’s only a company-wide competition. Compared to international competitions, that is. That’s on a completely different level. I’d never be able to get there.”

“I get that. But this is still a starting point, right?” Enjolras makes a vague gesture with his hand. “Upwards and onwards, and all that? I reckon you could go really far with this, with this, you definitely have the ability to. And you’re a great teacher. You should consider going for supervisor.”

“Me?” Grantaire laughs. “I’m not cut out for management.”

“That’s what training is for,” Enjolras says. “It can’t hurt to try.”

The thoughtful expression returns to Grantaire’s face. “I guess not.”

 

\--

 

Enjolras is checking the roster three months later, when he finds a familiar name listed between Feuilly and Jehan.

“Valjean?” he calls. “What’s Grantaire doing on our roster?”

“Hmm? Oh,” Valjean wanders over. “We need a new supervisor. Courfeyrac’s moving to the Hyde Park store once he finishes his ASM training.”

“But that means–”

“Surprise,” a new voice says behind him. “I’m your new shifty.”

He is met with the sight of Grantaire grinning widely, his hands shoved into the pocket of his faded jeans and scuffing his ratty trainers against the tiles.

“It’s all official and everything,” Grantaire says. “Look, I’ve even got a name tag.”

He holds up a black tag, already decorated with his own name. The sight of it makes Enjolras smile despite himself.

“I hope this means you’re going to start wearing proper uniform,” he says.

“Not a chance,” Grantaire replies. “You’re welcome to try and convince me to, though.”

“ _Grantaire_ ,” Enjolras sighs, exasperated. “You should be setting an example as a supervisor–”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Grantaire says quickly, ushering Enjolras away from the back room and out to the bar. “I promise I’ll think about it. _Promise_. But first – reckon you could make me a latte? On soy?”

Enjolras cranes his neck back to fix Grantaire with a look.

“You can make it yourself.”

“Nope, can’t, not in uniform, remember?” His grin grows impossibly wider. “C’mon, please?”

“ _Fine_ ,” Enjolras sighs. “I’m telling you now, though – I’ve been practising. We probably won’t even need you for the Roadshow this year.”

Grantaire laughs, loud and surprised. Enjolras’ face warms and his heart skips a beat at Grantaire’s wide-eyed delight.

“Oh ho _ho_ , so that’s how it is now, eh?” Grantaire chortles. “Well, let’s see if the student has indeed surpassed the master!”

Enjolras laughs and takes Grantaire’s hands as he leads them both to the coffee machine.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr!](http://besanii.tumblr.com/%22)


End file.
